


even standing in the sunlight there are shadows in my hair

by resident_longwinded_anon



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, F/M, Hannibal Lecter (in absentia), I... really don't know how to tag this one guys, M/M, POV Molly Graham, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:42:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26262862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/resident_longwinded_anon/pseuds/resident_longwinded_anon
Summary: “You still love him, don’t you?” you ask, when all the nurses have left the room and it’s just you and him.(Molly and Will have one last conversation.)
Relationships: Molly Graham/Will Graham, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 3
Kudos: 36





	even standing in the sunlight there are shadows in my hair

**Author's Note:**

> I find it difficult to imagine that the people already following me are the target audience for this fic, and equally difficult to imagine that the target audience for this fic are going to _find_ this fic, but here, have my introspective second-person meditation on Molly and Will's relationship I guess? Maybe one day I'll write something longer than 700 words again, but today is clearly not that day.
> 
> Title from "Persephone," by Vixy and Tony. ([x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hov0pz0wF50),[x](http://www.vixyandtony.com/index.html#select=Tony))

“You still love him, don’t you?” you ask, when all the nurses have left the room and it’s just you and him.

"Who said anything about ‘still?’” he responds.

“I already spoke to my sister,” you say, instead of indulging him. “She’s reaching out to her lawyer once he’s back in town. He should have the divorce papers in order by the end of next week.”

He laughs a little, strained and just a bit teary, the way he did on your wedding night. “That really won’t be necessary.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Because you and I have had such a wonderful month?”

“Because - “ He stops, clears his throat. He glances at the chair Wally slept in, that first night, before your sister picked him up; he starts again, quieter. “Because I’ll be dead by the end of the week, one way or another.” He purses his lips, then sighs. “I’m not making it out of this alive.”

“What’s that’s supposed to mean?” you say. You have to say something to that, even if you can’t kid yourself that you love him anymore - that he ever loved you at all.

He smiles at you, the same small steady grin that made you fall for him in the first place. “Don’t kid yourself, Moll.” His voice is gentler than you’ve ever heard it. “You know exactly what it means.”

Yes. You do. “What’s more likely, then? Will you be a martyr or a traitor?” There’s an echo of harshness in your voice, the faintest glimpse of the spurned wife or grieving mother you could have been; it’s nothing compared to the self-deprecation in his, when he answers.

“If I knew, I wouldn’t need to say goodbye.”

“Is that what this is? A goodbye?”

In lieu of a response, he leans in and presses a kiss to the center of your forehead, another to your temple, and another to the soft spot directly above your ear. “Tell Wally I love him,” he says, and for the first time since the attack you feel genuine rage pool under your skin. Bad enough you have to lose a second husband, but for Wally to lose a second father? How dare he?

You grab his wrist. “Tell him yourself.”

“I won’t be - “

“Write a note, Will.”

There must be something in your eyes or your voice, or else the fight’s just gone all out of him, because he nods. He sinks into the chair next to your bed and slides a piece of hospital stationery over to himself. You proffer the nubby pencil you’ve been using to scribble down your nightmares. He scratches at the paper for a little over a minute. You pretend not to notice the tears in his eyes.

When he’s done, he folds it in quarters, writes ‘WALLY’ on it, and hands it to you. He rocks back on his heels, and for a moment he’s the strange slow-healing man you fell for - and then he stands flat on his feet again, and you remember you never knew him at all. He leaves without another word.

Well. You’ve started over once before. Doing it again can’t be that much harder.

Once the door is latched behind him, when you’re sure he’s really gone, you whisper it to the empty room: “Goodbye.”

**Author's Note:**

> A few notes!  
> -I unironically love NBC Hannibal. I think it's pretentious and macabre and absurd and enjoyable as fuck.  
> -I ship Hannibal/Will (or, at least, I read and enjoy much fic on the subject), but I don't necessarily think Molly does, even the Molly in this piece. Make of that what you will!  
> -Tagging and summarizing this fic was SO HARD. SO HARD.  
> -It's been at least 18 months since I've watched TWOTL, and given current events I'm definitely not feeling up to a rewatch. Is there a gap in that episode where this conversation could fit? Hell if I remember! Let's just all agree to pretend there is.  
>   
> Thanks so much for reading, all!


End file.
